Muna-Madan
Muna Pleads with Madan
Madan:
I have only my mother, my one lamp of good auspice,
do not desert her, do not make her an orphan,
she has endured sixty-nine winters,
let her take comfort from your moonlight face.
Muna:
Shame! For your love of your mother
could not hold you here,
not even your love for your mother!
Her hair is white and hoary with age,
her body is weak and fragile.
You go now as a merchant
to a strange and savage land,
what's to be gained, leaving us for Lhasa?
Purses of gold
are like the dirt on your hands,
what can be done with wealth?
Better to eat only nettles and greens
with happiness in your heart.
Madan Goes to Tibet
Hills and mountains, steep and sheer,
rivers to ford by the thousand:
the road to Tibet, deserted and bare,
rocks and earth and poison drizzle,
full of mists and laden with rain,
the wandering wind as cold as ice.
Monks with heads round and shaven,
temples and cremation pillars,
hands and feet grow numb on the road
and are later revived by the fire,
wet leafy boughs make the finest quilts
when the teeth are ringing with cold,
even when boiled, it's inedible:
the rawest, roughest rice.
At last, roofs of gold
grace the evening view:
at the Potala's foot, on the valley's edge,
Lhasa herself was smiling,
like a mountain the Potala[1] touched the sky,
a filigreed mountain of copper and gold.
The travelers saw the golden roof
of the Dalai Lama's vast palace,
where golden Buddhas hid behind yak-hair awnings,
graven rocks of every color, embroidered like fairy dresses,
snowcapped peaks, waters cool,
the leaves so green, mimosa flowers
blooming white on budding trees.
Muna in Her Solitude
Muna alone, as beautiful as the flowering lotus,
like moonlight touching the clouds' silver shore,
her gentle lips smile, a shower of pearls,
but she wilts like a flower as winter draws near,
and soon her tears rain down.
Wiping wide eyes, she tends Madan's mother,
but when she sleeps in her lonely room
her pillow is soaked by a thousand cares.
She hides her sorrow in her heart,
concealing it in silence,
like a bird which hides with its wing
the arrow which pierces its heart.
She is only bright by the flickering lamp
when the day draws to its close.
A wilting flower's beauty grows
while Autumn is approaching,
when the clouds' dark edges are silver
vand the moon shines ever brighter.
Sadness glares in her heart,
recalling his face at their parting,
wintry tears fall on the flower,
starlight, the night's tears
drip down onto the earth.
A rose grows from the sweetest roots,
but roots are consumed by worms;
the bud which blooms in the city
is the prey of evil men;
pure water is sullied
by dirt from a human hand;
men sow thorns in the paths of men.
Most lovely our Muna at her window,
a city rascal saw her, a fallen fairy,
making a lamp for goddess Bhavani,
oblivious to all.
He saw the tender lobes of her ears,
saw her hair in disarray,
and with this heavenly vision
he rose like a madman and staggered away.
You see the rose is beautiful,
but brother do not touch it!
You look with desire, entranced,
but be not like a savage!
The things of Creation are precious gems,
a flower contains the laughter of God,
do not kill it with your touch!
Madan Tarries in Lhasa
Six months had passed, then seven,
suddenly Madan was startled,
remembering his Muna, his mother:
a wave of water rushed through his heart.
A dove flew over the city,
it crossed the river near the ford,
Madan's mind took wing, flew home,
as he sat he imagined returning,
and Muna's eyes were wide with sorrow,
her wide almond eyes.
"Dong" rang the monastery bell,
the clouds all gathered together,
mountain shadows grew long with evening.
Chilled by the wind in sad meditation,
Madan rose up, saw the moon wrapped in wool,
his mother, his Muna, danced in his eyes,
it became clear to him that night,
his pillow was wet with tears.
His heart oppressed by the reddening sky,
he packed his purses of gold away,
he gathered up his bags of musk,
then took his leave of Lhasa,
calling out to the Lord.
Madan Falls Sick on His
Journey Home
Here in the pitiless hills and forests,
the stars, the whole world seemed cruel,
he turned over slowly to moan in the grass...
some stranger approached, a torch in his hand,
a robber, a ghost, a bad forest spirit?
Should he hope or should he fear?
His breath hung suspended, but in an instant
the torch was beside him before he knew.
A Tibetan looks to see who is weeping,
he seeks the sick man there,
"Your friends were worthless, but my house is near,
you will not die, I shall carry you home."
Poor Madan falls at his feet,
"At home, I've my white-haired mother
and my wife who shines like a lamp,
save me now and the Lord will see,
he who helps his fellow man
cannot help but go to heaven.
This son of a Chettri touches your feet,[2]
but he touches them not with contempt,
a man must be judged by the size of his heart,
not by his name or his caste."
Madan Departs for Nepal
Far away lies shining Nepal,
where cocks are crowing to summon the light,
as morning opens to smile down from the mountains.
The city of Nepal wears a garland of blue hills,
with trees like earrings on the valley peaks,
the eastern ridges bear rosy clouds,
the fields are bright and dappled with shadows,
water falls like milk from distant hills.
Madan recalls the carved windows and doors,
the pipal tree loud in the rising wind,
the little house where Muna sits,
his Muna, his mother, the world of his heart.
"Your kindness has been unbounded,
for you restored my life to me,
a deed I cannot repay.
Two purses of gold I have buried,
now one is mine, the other is yours,
take it and bid me farewell,
I must depart for my home,
as I go forth I remember your charity."
The Tibetan protests,
"What can I do with this yellow gold?
Does gold grow up if you plant it?
You are kind, but we have no use for it,
here are my children, left by their mother,
what use is gold, is wealth,
when Fate has plucked her away?
These children cannot eat gold,
these children do not wear trinkets,
and my wife is above the sky,
the clouds are her only jewels."
The Passing of Madan's Mother
No tears in her eyes now, pervaded by peace,
day's final radiance in pale evening waters,
mainstay of her life, her bar against death: her son far away,
she thinks she sees him, wishfully thinking,
hot with fever, her thin hand is burning
as it lovingly clasps her daughter-in-law's hand.
"My time is near, I must cross to the other world,
no point in weeping, wife of my son.
This is everyone's road, little one,
the road of rich and poor,
this clay turns to clay
and is lost on the shores of sorrow,
and this you must bear:
be not trapped by the snares of grief,
practice devotion which illumines the final path.
I have seen the world's flower garden blooming and wilting,
and in my sorrow, daughter, I have recognized the Lord;
the seeds sown on earth bear their fruit in heaven,
my deeds I take with me, but what goes with me, in truth?
The wealth you acquire in this dream
is in your hands when you wake."
Madan Learns of Muna's
Death
"My poor brother," says Madan's sister,
"wipe your tears with the edge of my shawl,
be patient, my brother, do not act in this way,
know that we all must go at last,
just a few short days for this sinful body, this dirty pride,
in the end the wind scatters them, a handful of ash,
the flower of the flesh withers away
and mixes once more with the soil,
but a second flower blooms beyond this earth
to sway forever in a heavenly breeze.
We were born to bear sorrow,
to be made pure by suffering;
on our way to the heavenly mansions
we bathe in rivers of tears."
"Do not look down," cries Madan,
"Muna, I come to join you now,
you left a diamond of love here below,
and I shall return it to you...
I am veiled, obstructed by the curtain of Death,
I shall not weep, I shall set out tomorrow,
lift the curtain, oh Fate,
quickly now, and you will be blessed."
The clouds parted, a lovely moon smiled down,
it peered with the stars through the clear glass pane,
the clouds drew together, Madan slept forever,
next day, the sun rose in the clearest of skies.
Closing Verse
Have you washed the dust from your eyes, brother and sister?
We must understand this world, we must not be cowards,
look the world in the face and muster our courage,
stretch our wings to the sky while we still live on earth.
If life were just eating and drinking, Lord,
what would living mean?
If Man did not hope for an afterlife, Lord,
then what would Man be?
Here on earth, we shall turn our eyes to Heaven,
don't look down at the ground, lamenting!
The mind is our lamp, the body our offering,
and Heaven the grace which rewards them.
Our deeds are our worship of God,
so says Lakshmiprasad.[3]
(from LP Devkota [1936] )
[1] The Potala is the magnificent
palace-cum-monastery that dominates the Tibetan capital, Lhasa, and was the
winter residence of the Dalai Lama.
[2] Chetri is the second Hindu caste in Nepal,
roughly equivalent to the Indian Kshatriya.
[3] It is an old convention in Indian poetry for
a poet to include his or her name in the final verse of a poem as a kind of
signature.
